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The Taxidermy of Mr. Walter Potter and his Museum of Curiosities

By Melissa Milgrom

Athletic toads? Rats gambling in a dollhouse of decadence? How about bespectacled gentlemen lobsters?

No, this isn’t Wes Anderson’s sequel to Fantastic Mr. Fox, but the work of English Victorian taxidermist Mr. Walter Potter. Potter was famous for his over-the-top anthropomorphic scenes—kittens at the tea table; guinea pigs playing cricket—which were displayed in his Museum of Curiosities from 1861 until 2003 when his wondrous collection was sold in a contentious auction, which I attended in Cornwall.

One of England’s oldest private museums, Potter’s belonged to the era of the amateur nature lover when museums were spirited jumbles, not the sober typologies they would become post-Darwin. Potter’s verged on the freakish: random, cluttered, crammed to the rafters with curios and oddities, weird accumulations and creatures that were stuffed, pickled, dissected, and deformed. And I was lucky, though it filled me with sadness, to wander through Potter’s crooked corridors on its very last day.

It’s remarkable—attempts to save it by Damien Hirst and others failed— that Potters managed to evade the hammer this long; nearly every museum of its kind—Peale’s in Philadelphia; Scudder’s in New York, and London’s Museum of Stuffed Animals—had long shut down. Potter’s hung on for 147 years. And that’s not surprising given Potter’s staggering attention to detail. In “The Rabbits’ Village School,” for example, forty-eight newborn rabbits, each with its own writing slate, sit in a one-room schoolhouse, knitting socks, learning about Westminster Bridge, and solving math equations. Potter carved the inkwells out of chalk.

Born in 1835 in Bramber, Sussex, Potter dropped out of school to pursue his main passion in life: taxidermy. He began humbly enough with his pet canary, followed by a family of his pet albino rats (Lot 93), before advancing to dogs, cats, and common English birds. Eventually Potter could support himself as a taxidermist, however stuffing other people’s pets did not satisfy his creative impulse. That only happened after the Great Exhibition of 1851, the first world’s fair, where taxidermists displayed their work for a public that was crazy about animals, the more exotic the better. Taxidermy was a big part of that curiosity.

As naturalists brought exotic species home from other continents, armchair enthusiasts filled their parlors and drawing rooms with domed birds, butterfly cases, even their stuffed pets. Every claw and hoof was transformed into some exciting new object: everything from “zoological lamps” (kerosene lamps made out of preserved monkeys, swans, and other creatures) to “His” and “Her” elephant heads. Some hairstyles even incorporated preserved hummingbirds. Soon every town in England could support a part-time taxidermist. In fact, taxidermy was a prerequisite skill for any serious naturalist—including Charles Darwin, who hired a freed Guyanese slave to give him lessons.

Had Potter attended the Great Expo (very likely) he would have seen among the taxidermy displays a comic depiction of Goethe’s fable Reinecke the Fox reenacted with semi-human foxes. Sounds childlike—and it was in the best, most passionate way—but in the days before irony anthropomorphism was a form of endearment (imagine Beatrix Potter, no relation). More so, the facial expressions were expertly manipulated, raising the taxidermic bar and inspiring followers.

Known as the Grotesque School, “mirth-provoking” characters were the equivalent of a blockbuster movie. Queen Victoria herself stopped to linger and laugh at a frog shaving another frog. And taxidermists began transforming all sorts of animals into tiny humans: crows playing violin, frogs doing the cancan, squirrels as Romeo. None were as ambitious as Mr. Walker Potter. In 1854 Potter discovered the poem “The Death and Burial of Cock Robin” and in a burst of passion knew what to do with his storehouse of specimens. Seven years and 98 English birds later, Potter unveiled “Cock Robin” at his parents’ inn, causing a sensation and launching his famous museum. Fastidiously rendered, a few feathered mourners actually shed glass tears. On September 23, 2003, “Cock Robin” sold for $53,000. The previous day people stopped by for one last glimpse of a world that vanished long ago.

Melissa Milgrom, the author of Still Life: Adventures in Taxidermy, has written for several national publications including The New York Times and The Wall Street Journal. She has also produced radio segments for Public Radio International’s Studio 360. She holds a master’s degree in American Studies from the University of Pennsylvania and lives in New York City.

I know anthropomorphism is frowned upon these days, but I would have loved to have seen this exhibit! My guilty secret is imagining all the animals I meet from day to day having a secret, human-ish life, complete with costumes, furniture and personalities. I wonder what (who?) Ms. Milgrom’s favorite animals were?

I would have liked to have seen this; then would have felt bad for enjoying it.
This reminds me of the popular cat posters of the early 80’s. My friends and I were amazed at the trainers abilities to get the cats to pose as rock stars. Turns out the cats were dead. Once we knew this, we took our posters down.

The L.C. Bates Museum in Hinckley, ME is a remarkable institution that originated as one man’s personal natural history collection, including a large assembly of taxidermy — the idea of the moose, seals, groundhogs, etc. posed in tableaux is enchanting, and makes me want to email this post to the museum’s curators.

I have seen some simple examples of the kind of taxidermy described above in small (old) museums, but this looks like great fun. It would also be a great gift for that gentleman who has everything and is into nature or humor or both. The oddness of Victorian culture as juxtaposed with its extreme “properness” will never cease to intrigue and amaze.
CSmith

It is interesting how the culture has changed since Victorian times… our “post-Darwin” minds have a visceral reaction to a display of dead animals in an anthropomorphic setting, but the amusement of countless Victorians is undeniable. We are not actually sure how we feel about this, or how we should feel – what is the PETA point of view? what is the scientific perspective? what are the hygenic issues with these animals in homes and on display over decades? it provides an interesting mirror on ourselves; we are still the same people who gawked at these 100 years ago, and then attended a hanging as a public spectacle. It is undeniably Victorian.

How sad, that a loved collection would be split up! Makes me wish there was someone or some organization with the means to purchase as many of these collections as can be pieced back together and display them. I so would have loved to have viewed it!

Now, taxidermy seems to be reserved for hunters, those who want not to display the beauty of nature, but their own prowess at killing unnecessarily.

That museum definitely would have been a site to see! This has always seemed an interesting subject, as my husband’s family are hunters and always have a myriad of deer heads on their walls. I often wonder why someone would want dead animals hanging on their walls! Maybe this book would give me some insight.

Urbano, I wish you could have seen Potter’s collection because the tableaux are much grander and fastidiously rendered than a photo suggests (though even a jpeg of “Cock Robin” (you can check it out on my website http://Melissamilgrom.com ) will give you sense of his maudlin affection for birds. My personal favorites are Kittens Wedding, the Dueling Squirrels, and, of course, Potter’s fantasy, The Happy Family, where hawks nap with mice and their other prey as if they were a family at a picnic. I also loved the scarlet ibis because of its beauty.

COMMENT COMMENT COMMENT, I would love to own this book, I find the art of taxidermy to be one of the most profound forms out there. To mold nature the way walter potter and many others have is fantastical and drastically taboo. But with all that is esoteric, we find a way to bridge the gap. With this taxidermy we are visually raped by the question of what is art. This is art. If it makes you drop, then it is art. Appreciate nature, for when we lose touch with nature we lose touch with the very essence that is us.

This has always been a fascinating topic. Both my husband and I did study skins in college, but never got into taxidermy. It takes skill to do a good job. Neither of us likes to deal with the chemicals used. I never cared much for the touristy funny mounts. True to life depictions done well can be beautiful.

More than a few contemporary taxidermists agree with you Pat; they say cloying anthropomorphism is what gives taxidermy a bad name because it is something beyond nature. To the Victorians, however, it made little difference.